Because You Are Mine (Because You Are Mine #1)(51)

“Stop this. I don’t want any new clothes,” she hissed, glancing back uncomfortably at a politely confused-looking Margarite.

“I might want you to attend some events with me that require more formal attire,” he said, zipping his briefcase closed briskly.

“I’m sorry. I guess I won’t be able to go if you don’t think my appearance is suitable.”

He glanced up sharply at the tone of her voice. His nostrils flared slightly when he finally took note of her anger.

Margarite made a query in French from across the room. Ian’s stare felt like it had weight, but Francesca held it determinedly. He walked past her and addressed Margarite rapidly in French. The woman nodded in understanding, smiled warmly at Ian, grabbed her purse, and took her leave.

“Would you mind telling me what that was all about?” he asked her once he’d closed the door after a departing Margarite. His tone was cool, but his eyes gleamed with anger.

“I’m sorry. It was a generous offer on your part. But I know what type of clothing you’d probably tell Margarite to buy or have made. I’m a graduate student, Ian. I can’t afford things like that.”

“I know that. I’m purchasing them for you.”

“I told you I wasn’t for sale.”

“I told you that this sort of thing is the type of experience I can offer you,” he snapped back.

“Well, I’m not interested in that ‘sort of thing.’”

“I made it clear that this would be on my terms, Francesca, and you agreed. I’ll accept your stubbornness in small doses, but you go too far this time,” he said as he stalked toward her, clearly infuriated at her resistance.

“No. You go too far. I spent almost my entire life having authority figures tell me my appearance was wrong and try to alter it. Do you really think I’m so stupid as to give you permission to start doing the same thing now? I am who I am. If you don’t want to be around me this way, I’m sorry,” she said, her voice shaking.

He came to a halt. She wished he wouldn’t look at her with that laser stare of his that seemed to see so much. Tears unexpectedly filled her eyes. It hurt, for some reason, knowing that he’d prefer she were different. She knew that was irrational—he hadn’t said he wanted to alter her, just her clothes—but she couldn’t seem to prevent the swelling of emotion. They stood there in silence while she tried to contain herself.

“Never mind,” he said quietly after a moment while she stared blankly out the sun-filled terrace windows, her arms crossed beneath her breasts. “Perhaps we can discuss it later. I don’t want to argue with you right now. It’s a beautiful day. I’d like to enjoy it with you.”

She glanced at him hopefully. Was he really willing to forgive her for refusing his generosity? She dropped her arms.

“What . . . what were you planning on doing?”

He closed the distance between them. “Well, I was planning on a little shopping and a late lunch, but now that I hear your opinion on the matter, I think a change of plan is in order.”

She hid her grimace. She knew he didn’t like to change his plans.

“What about a quick tour of the Musée d’Art Moderne and a late lunch instead?”

She studied his impassive face closely, searching for clues as to his mood and finding none. “Yes. That would be wonderful.”

He nodded once and held out his arm toward the door. She walked past him, halting when he called her name suddenly, as if he’d been hesitating about saying something before, but now it popped out of him. She looked back.

“I want you to know that I am far from being critical of your appearance. Whether you’re in pearls or your Cubs T-shirt, I find you to be extremely attractive. Perhaps you haven’t noticed?”

Her mouth fell open in shock. “I . . . I have noticed. Really. I just meant—”

“I know what you meant. But you’re an extremely beautiful woman. I would like you to own that, Francesca.”

“It seems more like you want to own it . . . for however long it’s convenient to you,” she couldn’t stop herself from saying.

“No,” he said so harshly she blinked. He inhaled slowly, looking as if he regretted his outburst. “I admit, you probably have good reason for believing that, given what you know of me . . . what I know of me, even. But I find I truly would like you to see yourself clearly . . . to recognize your power.”

She just stared at him, her mouth hanging open, confused by the message in his eyes.

She was still bewildered when he took her hand and led her out of the suite.

* * *

Francesca had to keep repeatedly reminding herself that it was a purely sexual agreement she had with Ian, because in truth, she couldn’t have imagined a more romantic day in her life. At her request, they left Jacob to his own devices and walked the streets of Paris, Francesca experiencing a ridiculous amount of excitement and euphoria at the sensation of her hand enfolded in Ian’s, frequently glancing sideways to assure herself that she really was being escorted around the most romantic city in the world by the most appealing, compelling man she’d ever seen.

“I’m starving,” she said honestly after their brief and enjoyable tour of the Musée d’Art Moderne, where she’d continued to be amazed by the depth of his artistic knowledge and innate taste. He’d been the ideal companion—considerate of her desires for what she wanted to view, interested in what she had to say, revealing more of his dry, sharp wit and sense of humor than he ever had before with her. “Can we eat here?” she asked, pointing at the attractive little sidewalk bistro they passed on Rue Goethe with outdoor seating.